The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “By the way,” he said affably, after we had chatted for another ten minutes or so, “if you are staying in this neighbourhood you might care to have a look at my collection of curios. Though I say it myself I think I may say there are few finer in the country. And a man of taste like yourself would appreciate them.”

  “It is very good of you,” I remarked, “and I should greatly like to see them.”

  He had risen, and I stood up also.

  “Where is your house?”

  He glanced at his watch thoughtfully.

  “I have my car here,” he said, “and if you can spare an hour I could run you over and show them to you. Then my car can take you back to your hotel.”

  “There is only one small difficulty,” I said, “I came over from Amesbury with a gentleman I happened to meet at lunch. I see him over there—Professor Stanton. An enthusiast on butterflies.”

  “Professor Stanton,” he cried. “Not the Professor Stanton.”

  “I really don’t know,” I murmured. “I met him quite by chance at lunch today.”

  “But,” he exclaimed excitedly, “if it’s Professor John Stanton his reputation is worldwide.”

  I suppressed a slight smile; whatever Toby Sinclair’s reputation might be in certain purlieus of London, it could hardly be described as worldwide.

  “He’s coming to join us,” I remarked, “and you can ask him.”

  “But it is him,” he cried, as Toby approached. “What stupendous luck. My dear Professor,” he advanced with outstretched hand, “you remember me. What a fool I was not to recognize you in Amesbury when I passed you.”

  Sinclair stared at him blankly.

  “I fear you have the advantage of me, sir,” he remarked.

  The other waved a deprecating hand. “Ah! but, of course, you would not recall me. I am merely one of the thousands who have sat at your feet. It was presumption on my part to imagine that my face would be familiar to you. But how entranced I was at that lecture you gave on the habits of Pieris Rapae.”

  “You must be making some mistake, sir,” said Toby coldly. “I am not the gentleman you think.”

  “Modesty, Professor, modesty. Tell me have you discovered a specimen of it yet? You told us, if you remember, that it was to be your life work.”

  “Though you are making a mistake, sir, as to my identity—yet I can well imagine that it would have been the life work of the man I resemble. The rarest of all the species, perhaps. But I have seen today a marvellous specimen of the Opsiphanes syme.”

  “Stupendous,” said the other admiringly. “What eyesight: what wonderful eyesight. Well, I mustn’t detain a public character. Good day sir, good day. And if you care to join your friend in a little visit he has promised to make to my humble abode, I shall be delighted to show you my amateur collection.”

  He bowed courteously and walked off, leaving Sinclair and me staring at one another.

  “I say, old boy,” said Sinclair, “I hope this is all right. I wonder who the hell Professor Stanton really is. Hugh’s made a bit of a bloomer there. He oughtn’t to have given me the name of a pukka character. Anyway, I think I pulled the jargon on him all right. I must consult my list of names again.”

  And it was as he was pulling it out of his pocket that a strange noise close by drew our attention. It appeared to come from a little man of astonishing aspect, whose fake teeth were clicking together in his excitement. He also seemed to be trying to speak. We waited. By this time I was prepared for anything.

  “Are you acting for the films,” he spluttered at length. “Or are you being more stupid than you look for some purpose?”

  “Explain yourself, little man,” said Toby with interest.

  “Lying, sir—lying offensively on a subject which is sacred to some of us.” His teeth nearly fell out, but he pushed them back with the care of long practice. “Using words, sir, which betray you as an impostor. How, sir, did you see a specimen of Opsiphanes syme?”

  “With the jolly old peepers, laddie,” said Toby soothingly.

  “Bah!” cried the little man. “Are you so profoundly ignorant of the subject you desecrate that you do not know that only in the swamps of Brazil is that beautiful butterfly found?”

  “No wonder he said my eyesight was good,” said Toby thoughtfully.

  “And further, sir—do you see that?” He pointed a shaking finger at two Cabbage Whites chasing one another nearby. “The rarest of all the species, you called them. Pieris Rapae, sir. Bah! you make me sick. You should be prosecuted, sir; you should be prosecuted.”

  “Look here, you’ll swallow your teeth in a minute,” said Toby, but the astounding little creature had already departed, waving his fists in the air.

  “Takes all sorts to make a world, gents,” came a laughing voice from behind us. “But you do certainly seem to have said the wrong thing.” We swung round: the man who looked like a sailor was standing there. “Don’t you know anything about butterflies—or is he talking through his hat?” He gave Toby a penetrating stare. “Dangerous thing, sir, pretending to know more than you do. Or be what you ain’t.”

  He strolled away, and once again we looked at one another. “He’s one of ’em,” I said. “For a certainty. That’s torn it.”

  “Hell,” he remarked. “And again, hell. What about Lakington the second? Is he one, too?”

  CHAPTER XII

  In Which I Write My Mind to Drummond

  Toby Sinclair was thoroughly despondent. “I looked up a bunch of Latin names in an encyclopaedia,” he said morosely. “How the dickens was I to know that the damned thing only lived in Brazil?” We were sitting in his room at the hotel. “And the devil of it is, Dixon,” he went on, “that if Lakington is not one of them we’ve still given the show away to that sailor bloke. You could see his suspicions sticking out a yard.”

  “Hold hard a moment,” I said. “You say we’ve given it away.”

  “Well then—I have, if you like that better,” he said sulkily.

  “Don’t get huffy, old man,” I laughed. “I’m not trying to pretend that I should have done any better than you if I’d been the Professor. But as luck would have it I was only a clerk.”

  “What are you driving at?” He looked at me curiously.

  “Simply this. Up to date I have not given myself away—either to the sailor or to the man you call Lakington. I think I may say that I have been the bank clerk on holiday to the life.”

  “Yes—but they know you know me,” he objected.

  “They know—and if they choose to take the trouble to ask it will be corroborated—that you and I met casually in the coffee room at lunch today. If you are an impostor, which unfortunately they must know by now, there is still no reason whatever why I should have known it earlier.”

  “But you know it now as well as they do.”

  “Now—yes,” I agreed. “But the fact that I went to Stonehenge with you throws no suspicion on me. I didn’t know it then.”

  “I’m hanged if I get you,” he said.

  “You’ve got to clear out,” I remarked. “Vamoose. Hop it. Disappear from this place for good.”

  “I’m blowed if I do,” he said.

  “My dear fellow—you must. If we’re to do any good and help Drummond in any way, it’s impossible that you should stay on. They know you’re an impostor; they know I know you’re an impostor. Well, how can we both stop on here? Am I to cut you dead? Or am I to continue talking to you realizing that you are an impostor? Don’t you see that it’s sufficient to bring suspicion on me at once? Besides—I’m going to speak quite frankly. Your value to the side at the moment is nil. In fact, old man, you’re a positive source of weakness.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” he agreed reluctantly. “Well—what do you suggest?”

  “That you tell them downstairs that you’ve changed your mind and will not require your room. Then you hop it, and I’m sorry to say, as far as I can see, you fade out of the picture. I shall stay on, and
without being blatant about it, I shall drop an occasional remark about your extraordinary idea of a holiday. The strange sort of kink that makes a man pretend to be what he isn’t—that line of gup. Form of conceit—you know. I can easily cough it up. And by doing that I shall remove any small half-formed suspicion they may have about me. I am just an ordinary bank clerk taken in by you, as anyone else might have been.”

  He grunted and rose to his feet. “You’re right. I’ll go. Drop a note to Hugh explaining things—and tell him I’m eating mud.” And then he suddenly paused. “But, good Lord! Dixon—it’s no good. The damage is done. If they’ve got a line on me they’ll know Hugh and you and I aren’t dead.”

  “They haven’t got a line on you as yourself,” I said. “You might be somebody else rigged out like that—Algy Longworth for instance. Clear out and clear out quick. For unless you do, if I’m not greatly mistaken you’ll be for it. They will think you’re just another member of Drummond’s bunch, and as such require to be exterminated. I’m going down now into the bar; if I happen to see you before you go I shall be pretty terse in my remarks.”

  “What sickening luck,” he muttered. “Damn that blinking butterfly.”

  “It’s bad luck,” I said, “but I’m sure it’s the only thing to do. Look out into the passage and see if there’s anyone about. Then I’ll make a bolt for it.”

  He opened his door, and gave me the all clear. And a few moments later I strolled into the bar. A little to my surprise the seafaring man was there, seated in a corner. He was talking earnestly to someone, and as I saw who his companion was, my pulse beat a little quicker. It was our friend of the Mere, the man with the damaged hand. Proof—absolute and definite.

  I ordered a pint of ale and sat down near them. And the instant he saw me the sailor leaned across and beckoned me to join them. “Draw up, mate,” he cried. “You know it’s none o’ my business, but what was your friend’s great idea this afternoon. I’ve just been telling this gentleman about it. Your butterfly pal, I mean, who knew nothing about butterflies.”

  “I assure you,” I said a little stiffly, “he’s no friend of mine. He’s the most casual acquaintance. He happened to be lunching late at the same time as I was, and I gathered that he was a Professor Stanton, and an authority on butterflies. And he suggested we should go to Stonehenge together.”

  “Can’t understand it,” said the sailor man. “Now, if one of you started to talk to me about seafaring matters, I guess I’d spot in two shakes how much you know about the sea. And what’s the good, anyway, of pretending you know what you don’t know? You look such a blazing fool when you’re found out.”

  “I think the explanation is very simple,” I remarked. “It’s merely a peculiar form of conceit. That man probably knows a smattering about butterflies, and for some reason or other likes to pose as an expert. He got it in the neck all right from that little man with the false teeth.”

  The sailor slapped his thigh with a blow like a pistol shot and roared with laughter. “Got it in the neck! Not half he didn’t. Well, it will teach him a lesson. And butterflies—of all things. Look out—here he is.”

  Tony Sinclair came fussing in, and as soon as he saw me he crossed to our table.

  “Ah! Mr Seymour,” he said, “our little trip tomorrow must be cancelled, I fear. I have been unexpectedly called back to London, to my annoyance.”

  “I am sorry to hear that—er—Professor,” I said a little stiffly.

  “Going to catch Opsi—whatever it was—in Trafalgar Square,” chuckled the sailor.

  “I quite fail to understand you, sir,” said Toby, drawing himself up. “Well—goodbye.” He turned to me and held out his hand. “I trust you will enjoy the remainder of your holiday.”

  He went out into the lounge, and I watched him paying his bill.

  “Really an extraordinary case,” I said thoughtfully. “He’s the last man in the world I should have thought would do anything so foolish. Even now I can’t help thinking there must be some explanation. Though I suppose it’s really a very unimportant matter.”

  “You never can tell,” said the sailor darkly. “It may be that you’re well clear of him, mate. Blokes don’t masquerade like that unless they’ve got to. And they haven’t got to unless there’s something wrong somewhere.”

  “I quite agree,” said the man with the damaged finger, speaking for the first time. “And as I happen to be a member of the police, I think I’ll just keep an eye on the gentleman.”

  He finished his drink and left the room, and the sailor whistled under his breath.

  “I wonder what the bloke has done,” he said. “Or whether it’s what you said—just a form of conceit. Anyway—have another.”

  For a moment or two I sat there undecided. Only too well did I know that the man with the damaged hand was not a member of the police, only too well did I know what he was a member of.

  “Thanks,” I said perfunctorily. “The same again, please.” Should I, too, follow and tell Toby? But if I did, the sailor would in all probability begin to suspect me. He was a member of the gang, too, and it was vital that I should be thought genuine. At the same time, how could I possibly let Sinclair run into some trap? He’d been a fool to come over and speak to me, seeing who I was with. Still, I couldn’t let him down. He must be warned.

  “I think, after all, I won’t have another at the moment,” I said. “I shall go out for a bit of a stroll. I’ll go on up and get my hat.”

  “Right ho! mate. You might see the Professor getting more butterflies.”

  I left the bar and went upstairs to my room. Was I doing the right thing or was I not? After all, nothing much could happen in Amesbury in the middle of the afternoon, and Toby was quite capable of tackling the man with the damaged finger single-handed. If he knew about him—that was the point.

  I went down slowly into the lounge, trying to decide. The sailor was still sitting in his corner of the bar: he evidently regarded the rest of the half-section as preferable to a walk.

  “A note for you, sir.” The girl called to me out of the office.

  “For me?” I said, staring at her.

  She was holding it out, and I glanced at it. It was addressed to F. Seymour, and the unfamiliar name almost caught me napping.

  “That’s not—” I began, and then I remembered and took it. “Thank you,” I said. “Who left it?”

  “I really don’t know, sir,” she said. “I’ve been out of the office for a few minutes and I found it lying here when I got back.”

  Who on earth could it be from? No one knew me: and then, of course, I got it. Toby had left it on his way out. I slit open the envelope, and for a moment I stared at the contents uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Do not follow Toby—H. D.’

  H.D. Drummond! but where was he? How on earth did he know I had intended to follow Toby? And even as I racked my brains for an answer, a thickset man in plus-fours crossed the lounge and entered the bar. He had a short, clipped beard, flecked with grey, and his hair was thinning a little over the temples.

  With an immense feeling of relief I followed him. Thank Heaven! He had arrived on the scene. Naturally I was not going to pretend to know him, but I couldn’t resist throwing him a casual glance as I passed. By the mere fact that I was there he would know that I had carried out his orders so that it was unnecessary for me to do more. And I had the satisfaction of getting a quick look of approval.

  “Changed your mind, mate, after all,” called out the sailor. “However, better late than never, and good beer tastes none the worse for the waiting.”

  “It looked so infernally hot in the street,” I said. “And even the chance of seeing our butterfly expert arrested for bigamy wasn’t a sufficient inducement to go out.”

  I purposely spoke in a loud voice so that Drummond should hear.

  “Bigamy; that’s good,” chuckled the sailor. “With a face like his I should think he’d be lucky to get one. Say “—he lowered his voice confidenti
ally—”what do you make of the bloke in the corner. The one with the grouse moor on his face?”

  “Nothing much,” I said. “Why? You don’t think he’s another criminal, do you? Seems a perfectly ordinary sort of bird.”

  And then it suddenly occurred to me that it would be a good thing to let Drummond know that this man I was talking to was one of the enemy.

  “By the way,” I said casually, “seeing that you’re a beer drinker, I suppose you’re a Froth Blower.”

  The sailor shook his head. “I’ve heard of it,” he remarked. “But I ain’t a member. What’s the idea?”

  “Well, they’ve got a sort of anthem,” I said, conscious that Drummond was looking in our direction, “by which they recognize one another. It goes something like this.”

  “Great Scott!” said the sailor after I’d finished. “Does it? You’ve got a funny sort of voice, haven’t you, mate? Or is that really the tune?”

  “It should under certain circumstances be sung twice,” I remarked. “This is one of them.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” he said urgently. “I don’t want to be rude, guv’nor, but your voice is one of them things when a little goes a long way. Have another gargle?”

  I declined his offer, and a little later I made my way into the lounge. Drummond had left the hotel, and it was fairly obvious that the only interest that the seafaring gentleman could have in me was one of curiosity. Though we had done our best to allay suspicion, Toby Sinclair’s mistake had greatly increased my difficulties. To be associated, however innocently, with a man who has been found out as a fraud is bound to make one conspicuous. And that is exactly what I had no desire to be.

  The saving point in the situation up to date had been—though I said it myself—my own acting. And as I sat in the lounge, idly scanning a local paper, I confess I felt a little amused. Drummond’s absolute assurance that we should not recognize him struck me as being distinctly funny. Seldom had I seen a more obvious disguise than the one he had adopted. Of course, I realized that he had definitely given himself away to me by writing the note, but even without that I should have known him anywhere. The beard was so very obviously false. In fact, I made up my mind that when I dropped him a line to tell him exactly what had happened over Toby Sinclair I would warn him about that beard. It looked the sort that might fall off in the soup. And one thing was certain. If any of the enemy who had known him in days gone by—the woman herself, for instance—should chance to see him, he would be spotted for a certainty.